I wrote this listening to your talk on morphic resonance.

MORPHIC REMEMBRANCE

For Rupert

 

Morphic resonance rolls off my tongue.

I saw the words water falling from

Form canals of the write hemisphere.

 

I cant conjure up images, no minds eye.

The stroke brain injury created aphan-

Tasia, black behind my eyes. Memories

from thirty years ago wave and weave

of my tongue like it were yesterday.

I remember moment us pomements.

 

 In my broken mind there is no past/present

Tense living in now and now, A Fox thought.

A Fox looking at a fox by a fox, memory

Comes from muscle memory life remembers

Life repetitive repeats, my morphic field.

 

Fernando Pessoa wrote in the book dream

of being alive, Its not necessary just to live

but to feel. I feel pomes without memory

a past or present emotional engineering.

I might be disabled but feel aphantasic.

 WASTELAND

Between Etna wasteland and Jamaica street

I looked on listening to police messages. An

A.P.B. went out for the lady in red, carrying

An arm-elite rifle that killed a man. My dad

Told me to burn the coat my sister's pride

And joy. This was the early 70’s so you do

What you were told, sitting by the dormer

Window I don’t know what I felt, now. What

A wasteland, trying to remember something

Without emotional engineering. My dad/sister

are dead now, he's up on the ulcerated ulster hills.

She is laying low in lylo, this is my all-points bullet-

In, all for the plot of land 6x3. We can't even find his

 Plot, did they die for Ulster? Religion what a waste

all in gods name. I hope this signal reaches you. Not

green or orange but pure peace, who will listen to

pagan poetry. There is only a one-way street, you can't

get it down without crying.

 

 

 This is a collection of comments holo-

graphic memory. I can't conjure up images 

in my mind. I have no mind's eye aphantasia 

 but I feel muscle memory. Intrigued by Henri-

Bergson and Iain mc Gilchrist and the divided 

brain. Rupert Sheldrakes morphic resonance 

and Alan Watts backward law.

These great men, great poets like Carver, 

Kavanagh and Pessoa are a few. I don't 

let on to know these great works or form, but their basic 

the vibration of life helped me live with a broken mind, 

to accept my broken imperfection and make my words 

for me alone flow.

They are on to something dealing with literature

and scientific fact. I used to write about dreams

and imagination. I had a massive stroke that wiped

my left brain of forty-five years of memory. 

It has taken me twenty years to get to this point. These

great writers like Michaux and James Simmons.

I am so privileged to stand up and sit down on my throne

Wheelchair. These great men gave me the write

Hemisphere. Marguerite Dumass wrote on her

Studies on melancholy: 

When you find yourself in a hole at the bottom 

of a hole, you realize that only writing will save you.

That and John Berrymans blind-brow, John Keats

negative capability and the magic hand of chance I live 

with that negative capability, I am still on that spectrum 

of negativity. 

2005, I couldn't read or comprehend a sentence; writing was like fishing with maggots. They were all 

over the show, but I rewrote my doggerel comments for the moment. I don't have any emotional

 engineering, so past and present don't exist in my world.

I don't even know if my children were born in childhood or 20 

years of marriage, but my pomes are vehicles of holo--

graphic memory, attempted suicide twice, and left

to deal with my own suicidal tendencies. Even the mental

health couldn't tell  they hadn't a clue about aphantasia

even G.P. had never heard of it, and it was diagnosed 

in 1508.

 

I found out on YouTube from a guy who attempted

Suicide twice. He couldn't picture his dead mother

in his broken mind

So much for N.I.Mental health. I found out my own

Way through, and it's been Aphantastic, I am dignified

disabled.

 

A flick up on my blog of hopeless hope. I don't

come to this from a scientific mind. I know that my

mind is broken, I no longer have the brainpower to

Teach creative writing. Fernando Pessoa wrote in

The dream of being alive it's not necessary just to

Live but to feel that's good enough for me.

 MORPHOGENETIC POETRY

For Shawn

 

Morphogenetic poetry forms in a formless mind,

 morphic resonance. Life remembers life, nature's

 memory. On the rugged north head of Kerry. I tried

 to grasp the rock face but he waves are so

 unpredictable, it swept me into a whirlpool.

 

Down and down it sucked me under. Being

a Piscean I have a strange love of water. I

stopped struggling lost in the mighty surge.

Just when I gave up it threw me up to cling

on to the shore like birth itself.

 

Like the vortex of a tornado, it took me, lost

in its flow state. The Earth gravitational pull

 

threw me out to live another day, the brutal tender

 touch. Held in the magic hand of chance, Keats

 words not mine. This occurred thirty years ago, I

 threw it up to roll of my tongue like it were that

 wave yesterday.

 

My friend Shawn listens to me go off on

a tangent and this stream flowed. Shows

How much I have recovered through

writing my blog with thousands of pictures

To flick my memory of hopeless hope.

 

The way this pome moves memory like

A morphic resonance, the body must hold

Muscle memory to throw this up. It must be

like an effortless effort, the backward law.

 

You can’t beat the truth sayer, my broken

mind can’t lie. There is no past or present

tense just now and now. It is on my memory

blog the write hemisphere. I don’t get images

in my mind but I know foxy was there.

 

CRYPT-TO-CHROME-CHIMPANZEE POETRY.

 A FOX THOUGHT

1.

Accidentally on-purpose poetry.

I have written of this moment by

The half door dozens of times.

I know I will never get to the point

 Without emotional engineering.

 

I know my mind is broken but I

Am compelled to get to that magic

Moment, spiritus mundi as W.B.

Yeats wrote.

 

My Da went on the run bailed out-

one of the longest detainees in Ireland,

nine months. My mum said I was a wild

child would die on these streets she knew

me like no other, she saved my life.

 

Watching nature like never before.

Born and brought up in an inner city 

London-Belfast. A red glow dawning

a fox skulked out of Kavanagh's ditch.

 

A cottage in Hackballscross two rooms

without light, running water or electricity

but it changed my mindset. I stood there

at a magic dawn and watched a fox glare

back into me.

 

Dream like I stood at the half door

and realized that not the whole world

was not at war. A republican child who knew

nothing but war.

 

 It stood and walked on like the fox

in Ted Hughes poem the thought fox.

A Fox looking at a fox like a mirror image

of my inner being my heart raced.

 

 

That fox gave me something I couldn’t see

A wonder of beauty in a red glowing ditch

The cottage became my freedom winds.

A fox appearing in my poe-art like a shamanic

seal of wonder for a pagan poet.

 

When my father died I learned the cottage

was owned by the I.R.A. to run guns across

the border, he couldn’t look me in the eye.

We loved to hate each other, hardly ever spoke.

 

Mucker the townland of Patrick Kavanagh

was just a stone’s throw away.